Ever-beloved
by Elesianne
Summary: Times change and Angrod and Edhellos do too as they withstand the struggles of the Noldor together, but they hold on to their love and their faith in each other until the fiery end. NB. Despite the title, there is more than romance in this fic.
1. The noontide of the blessed realm

_**Some keywords for this fic: **__romance, family, some fluff and angst, implied sex, Noldor and their fall and their triumphs, canon compliant_

_**Chapter word count**__: ~1,600 words_

_****All warnings for this fic: ****Major Character Death at the end of the last chapter (with the caveat that's it's Tolkien's elves dying so whether that counts as true death is debatable); also some blood, violence and mentions of deaths in the last four chapters. Nothing is graphic and all is canon or canon-typical. _

_**A/N: **__There will be five short chapters. I've completed the fic already and will update often. I use Quenya names as long as the characters would use them._

__In _Laws and Customs Among the Eldar_, Tolkien mentions that many elven couples choose each other as children. I decided that Angrod/Angaráto and Edhellos/Eldalótë, who is shortly mentioned in _The Shibboleth of Fëanor_, are one such couple. **  
**__

* * *

**Chapter I: The noontide of the blessed realm**

_'This was the Noontide of the Blessed Realm, the fullness of its glory and its bliss, long in tale of years, but in memory too brief.'_ – The Silmarillion: Of Fëanor and the Unchaining of Melkor

* * *

Eldalótë cannot recall a time she did not know Angaráto. She was born the daughter of one of king Finwë's advisors, he one of his grandsons. They have always been in each other's world, though not closely before the day as young children when they become the pupils of the same tutor.

It takes some courage to say it. He is a prince and she is not a princess, and she rarely speaks to people she doesn't know well, but after some weeks of watching him silently during lessons she tells him, 'I think I would like you to marry me.'

He studies her face and replies, 'You said that very quietly.'

'It doesn't mean that I didn't mean it loudly', she says.

He thinks for a heartbeat and then nods decisively. 'I think I want that too.'

With that it is settled, and all there is to do is to grow up so that they can do it.

* * *

On their last day of lessons together, when they are old enough that such things as small touches are becoming exciting in a new way, Eldalótë takes his hand in hers under the long table.

It is warm and large in hers, and Angaráto holds on tight to her without speaking a word.

* * *

The next day he comes to her home just to bring her a flower for her hair.

'For your name', he says. Elven-flower, star-flower, she is called.

He brings her one on many days after that, too, even though she tells him, 'You have the prettier hair that should be decorated.'

Though, perhaps, his mane of gold needs no enhancement.

She often thinks of it while she learns her craft, gilding. No delicate sheet of gold leaf is more beautiful when the light shines through it than Angaráto's hair in the light of Laurelin.

His glowing hair is a wonderful contrast to his masculine features, his strong jaw and thick, light brown brows, and his wide shoulders and arms that even as a boy were strong enough to swing his little brother around, or carry all of Eldalótë's schoolbooks and his own. But he carries his strength lightly, without boasting like his cousin Tyelkormo, and she likes that very much.

She wonders if she chose to learn to beautify things with gold because of his golden self.

* * *

They declare their betrothal to their families on the day Angaráto, the younger of them by a few weeks, comes of age. They wait the required year to marry, and then they settle into the life together they always knew they wanted.

It suits them very well.

'Yours is the most boring love story I have heard of', Angaráto's cousin Maglor tells them at their wedding. Eldalótë smiles, for he says it in good humour. Angaráto at her side bristles a little.

Findekáno says the same later. 'No disapproving parents, no problems getting along with anyone, no competing suitors, not even a disagreement on the wedding date!' he lists, grinning.

'We'll leave all drama to you', Angaráto quips, poking at Findekáno's ostentatiously gold-braided hair. 'You wear it better. You can write songs about it and wail them all over Tirion as is your habit.'

Eldalótë likes the way he is with his family. He can be rash, but he is gentle at heart and loves all who are close to him.

* * *

Aikanáro has always been a good friend to her, too, and despite his young age often hid pleased smiles when he saw his older brother paying court to her.

At their wedding feast, he takes her hand and leads her to a joyful dance.

'I have been blessed with a second sister', he says to Eldalótë in between the swift steps. He has been growing rapidly, and is almost as tall her now. 'A quieter one, but no less smart. I am glad for my brother, and for all our sakes.'

He smiles at her in his softly mischievous way, and she can do nothing but smile back, words stuck in her throat. She has no siblings of her own.

'Thank you, brother', she manages at the end of the dance when, her arm placed carefully on his, he delivers her back to her beloved.

* * *

On their wedding night, Angaráto treats her like the most precious thing he ever saw, with equal reverence and passion.

'As beautiful as the stars', he whispers against her skin as he kisses a leisurely route around her body.

She runs her hands all over him, hurrying to learn all the parts of him that are usually covered in clothes. She has been wanting to touch them for years. He is the perfect combination of hard and soft, and she tells him so.

He makes his way up to kiss her lips that are kiss-softened already. 'And you are more than I dreamed.'

She twines her hands in his hair, in the purest unalloyed gold of it, and looks up at him. He has his grandmother Indis' admired hair colour and his grandfather Olwë's eyes, blue and dark and fair.

'When I chose you as a child', she tells him, 'I did not imagine moments like this. A child could not. The woman I've grown into wants nothing so much as you in all ways.'

Angaráto swallows, and she watches the movement in his neck muscles and his jaw. 'The way you look at me in the low light of private spaces – it robs me of my words and my wits.'

'That is all right.' She runs her hand down his arm that is corded with muscle and golden-warm under her fingers. 'We need only feel tonight.'

Angaráto nods, and sets to work making her unable to speak as well. She holds on to his broad shoulders that some of her friends have called too broad and she calls perfect – but then, any shape he grew into would have been perfect.

* * *

Her mother-in-law teaches her to make lace as strong as any net of Falmarin fishermen and as fair as any jewel of the Noldor, with her gentle, nimble fingers guiding Eldalótë's. It is quiet and peaceful in Eärwen's chambers in the palace of Olwë at the harbour of Alqualondë, with a fresh sea breeze ever blowing in through the tall windows.

Angaráto and Eldalótë stay here much of the time. She misses her own family but at his side, begins to feel at home with his family and among the Falmari too.

With Eärwen's guidance, Eldalótë makes a nightgown of gossamer-fine lace and one night, puts it on and asks her husband what he thinks of it.

Touching the soft, almost see-through fabric, he makes a complicated expression. 'I don't know what to think since I know that my mother helped you make it –'

Eldalótë is embarrassed, but bursts into laughter. 'I did not think of that. I am horrible at enticement.'

'You don't need clothes to entice me.' Angaráto swoops her into his arms, nightgown and all. 'Just ask, sweet wife. Asking takes much less time than making nightgowns.'

'Take me to bed, then, please?' Feeling very frivolous, she bats her eyelids at him.

Laughing, they fall into bed. The windows are open, and the sea air is sweet, and the call of seagulls close by a part of existence here.

* * *

Her husband and all of his family love to sail. 'You must have half salt water in your veins', Eldalótë dares to joke one night.

'Very possibly.' Findaráto smiles at her. 'But do not mention that in the presence of uncle Fëanáro or his sons. They already thinks us strange with our Noldorin, Falmarin and Vanyarin blood. They would think us stranger with salt water added into the mix!'

'That's not quite fair to them', Arafinwë tries to interject, rather feebly. Eldalótë knows when he defends Fëanáro, it is often more out of a sense of duty than genuine feeling.

'It's more than fair', Angaráto contends. 'They think that we should act and dress and talk more Noldorin than we do.'

But Eldalótë comes to like some Falmarin habits too. She loves wearing pearls in her hair, and fishing on balmy afternoons or early in the morning when the sea wind has teeth.

Findaráto tries to teach her sail when Angaráto's equilibrium fails at her ineptitude, but even with her brother-in-law's more patient tutelage, she never comes to like steering a ship herself. She is a good fisher, though. She enjoys the tranquillity of sitting on a pier or a boat, waiting for fish to bite, and the thrill of diving fast with a spear in hand.

She and Artanis never know how to be in each other's company. Artanis is much younger than her, only a keen-eyed child when Eldalótë and Angaráto are married. As she grows, she continues to regard Eldalótë with slight confusion. Not because she doesn't understand her sister-in-law – Eldalótë knows that there are few people Artanis can't understand the nature of, even as a child – but because she doesn't understand the connection between her brother and Eldalótë.

Eldalótë wants to tell her, 'You don't need to understand it; it is enough that I am enough for him.'

But she never does, of course, and she and Artanis are both well-raised enough that they always behave civilly with one another though they have little in common and never seek out each other's company.

Eldalótë's father-in-law simply treats her like a daughter, as he has done since she met him for the first time when she was the height of his knee and Angaráto had already told his father he was going to marry her. Arafinwë was the only one who took the two of them, a pair of earnest children, seriously since the beginning.


	2. The high princes of the Noldor

_**Chapter word count**__: ~2,000 words_

* * *

**Chapter I: The noontide of the blessed realm**

_The Noldor advanced ever in skill and knowledge; and the long years were filled with their joyful labours, in which many new things fair and wonderful were devised.'_ – The Silmarillion: Of Fëanor and the Unchaining of Melkor

_'Melkor would often walk among them, and amid his fair words others were woven, so subtly that many who heard them believed in recollection that they arose from their own thought. Visions he would conjure in their hearts of the mighty realms that they could have ruled at their own will, in power and freedom in the East[-]  
High princes were Fëanor and Fingolfin, the elder sons of Finwë, honoured by all in Aman; but now they grew proud and jealous each of his rights and his possessions.'_ – The Silmarillion: Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor

* * *

Eldalótë has gold dust on her fingers at the end of some work days, and Angaráto washes away soot from his every evening. She is a gilder, he a blacksmith; neither are as fine royal crafts as those that many in the house of Finwë pursue, but they suit Eldalótë and Angaráto well.

Gold leaf is fragile, and painstaking to apply. It is precious and valuable, too, and a mistakes are literally costly.

But the end result is always so beautiful, and once Eldalótë has mastered the techniques, she often falls into an almost trance-like state as she works.

Some of Angaráto's extended family look down on her craft because she does not herself create the objects she gilds, but she does not mind working on the art of other's hands. She loves bringing it to a new height of beauty by emphasising all or some of it by a gleaming layer of finest gold.

She only works as a gilder a day or two a week after she marries, but her mother-in-law arranges a worktable for her at a gilders' workshop in Alqualondë, too, so she doesn't have to forsake her craft even when she and Angaráto are there.

Angaráto would go mad with work like hers, he tells her. He loves having something to expend some of his strength and energy on.

'And having to hit metal accurately forces me to focus', he explains to her when they are young and each apprentices in their respective crafts. 'I have to work myself into the right shape to work the metal.'

She understands then that it is not that different from the state she finds herself falling into when her work goes well though she works with whisper-thin, temperamental gold and he with stubborn iron and steel.

* * *

'Which came first, your interest in blacksmithing or your epessë, Angamaitë?' She asks him once, when they are still young and unmarried. Her beloved is nicknamed iron-handed.

She has some strength in her for she is a craftswoman after all, and loves riding her spirited mare far and fast, but nothing like he has his in his arms and his large hands. Some of it is all his own as if an extension of his spirit, and some from learning his craft.

They lie on their backs under a flowering tree in her family's garden, and the stern and watchful eyes of her grandmother sewing under the next tree.

'The name. Findaráto gave it to me, Angaráto replies. He sneaks a quick touch of his hand to hers in the not-long-enough grass. Eldalótë can feel her grandmother's disapproving gaze, though there is no scolding yet. 'It gave me the idea to perhaps become a blacksmith. I didn't have any particular passion from a very small child like some do.'

'Like Findaráto and his passion for shaping stone.' Eldalótë's eyes follow a bee busily toiling in the blossoms above them while she remains aware of Angaráto constantly almost-touching her.

'Or cousin Makalaurë and his songs. I heard uncle Fëanáro once say that he sang before he could speak.' Angaráto snorts. 'Artanis makes all sorts of noises. Some of them could perhaps be counted as singing, I suppose. All of them are too loud.'

'She is a very sweet child', Eldalótë defends. She stares at the yellow blossoms and dreams of golden-haired babies.

Angaráto snorts again. 'In looks, perhaps. Not otherwise! My parents have their hands full with her. But Aikanáro became a very decent friend once he grew out of babyhood. I dare hope that little sisters do the same.'

* * *

There are only a few peaceful years following their marriage. As if out of nowhere, but also arising gradually like a weed growing toward the light, the peaceful if driven existence of the Noldor is poisoned by unrest and strife. Arafinwë and Eärwen and all of their children spend even more time among the Falmari than before, preferring the untroubled atmosphere of Alqualondë.

Angaráto and Aikanáro are the only ones in the family who would sometimes prefer to stay and take sides in the debates and arguments. Angaráto has a few heated discussions with his father about it, as heated as anyone can have with Arafinwë. The end result is, every time, that Arafinwë does not force Angaráto to come to Alqualondë but states that he would prefer it. Angaráto always bows to his father's preference and wisdom eventually, after some grumbling.

(Eldalótë once overhears his father-in-law ask Angaráto, as another prong in his argument, 'Would Eldalótë not also prefer to come to Alqualondë?'

Angaráto admits that probably she does, and in that he is right. Her own family is in Tirion, but they are growing quarrelsome too, asking for her opinions on Fëanáro and Nolofinwë as someone who knows both better than they do. She does not want to take part in those family quarrels, though she is, because of Angaráto's close friendships, closer to the house of Nolofinwë than Fëanáro.)

She is glad when Angaráto always brings them to Alqualondë in the end. The salty-fresh air, the sheen of pearls and shells all around, the ships coming to harbour in the evening – they come to represent freedom from argument-created anxiety for her.

Even in Alqualondë though, there is no cessation in young Artanis' ponderings of what the land on the other side of the wide sea is like, and how it would be to rule realms there. Arafinwë and Eärwen look uneasy at this, but Findaráto encourages it

Artanis asks their grandfather Olwë, once, when Findekáno is visiting with them. Eldalótë is there in Olwë's hall that night and listens with them as the king of the Falmari describes the starlit land he knew as plagued by danger and hardship.

It doesn't put out the fire in Artanis and Findekáno's eyes and, Eldalótë notes with discomfort, her own husband and Aikanáro also lean forward as they listen intently.

* * *

Their son is born is Alqualondë on a windy night, the curtains in Eldalótë's bedchamber's windows fluttering and swaying like the wings of seabirds.

Their child is small enough as newborn that Angaráto can hold him on just one of his large hands. Eldalótë watches, too tired to even speak yet filled with incandescent joy, as father gets to know son. Angaráto appears lost for words. He touches the baby's tiny fingers, tiny toes, perfect ears, tuft of dark golden hair. Their son stares back at him with unblinking eyes as blue as cornflowers in the heart of summer, or so Eldalótë would describe them if she were writing a poem.

Eldalótë smiles as she falls quietly into rest.

* * *

Artaresto is the first child of a new generation born into the third house of the Noldor, and he is cherished by all of them. Findaráto adores him even though Artaresto has a particular penchant for Findaráto's fine, colourful clothes and especially for burping on them. Findaráto only grins and praises him for his evident appetite.

When his older brother once again comes to Eldalótë and Angaráto's rooms with the flimsy excuse of bringing the baby yet more unnecessary gifts, Angaráto says to him drily, 'You should court your own sweetheart at a pace faster than glacial so you might have little ones of your own to spoil before ours is grown tall.'

'I don't think I shall', Findaráto replies as if one half in sleep, or some other vision, even while he tickles Artaresto's sweet little belly.

Angaráto looks unnerved, and looks at Eldalótë. She can offer him no explanation or consolation. They are both left worried when Findaráto leaves, whistling his way down the corridor.

* * *

Eldalótë grieves it when Angaráto begins using the strength in his arms and hands and spirit to forge instruments of protection, and of killing too. Of late, every man of means and many of the women, too, seem to be sporting a shield as they go about their business in Tirion, as if it had become a compulsory part of dress. Angaráto and Aikanáro and Findaráto believe that swords are necessary to make and learn to wield as well. She supposes that they must, if there is any danger, and recently a threat seems to be hanging above everyone's heads.

She gilds the pommels of her husband and Aikanáro's swords though she finds the new weapons almost as unpleasant as the barely-named threats. There have been no such weapons in Aman ever before: not meant for hunting or sport, but for something else.

Her aversion to violence only strengthens the enchantment of strength and staying that she sings through the fine gold into the unforgiving steel of the swords.

She gilds the device of her father-in-law on their shields too. From the shields' centre of orange sapphires radiate golden rays of light which she enchants to deflect blows away from her loved ones.

She prays to the Valar whom she, too, doubts of late that the blades and shields will not be needed.

* * *

One day Angaráto tells her to start practising archery again. She was a keen archer growing up and even won a few competitions, but her bow has lain untouched most of the time since Artaresto was born.

Eldalótë asks him why she should take it up again. 'For the same reason I have forged few things other than swords for a while now', he replies, face grim.

So she asks Findekáno whether she can join him in his practice, and asks him to help her teach Artaresto too – for Angaráto is not much of an archer, and Findekáno who is his close friend as well as cousin is a famed one. Elenwë and young Idril join them too, and Artaresto enjoys practising together with his cousin on their small bows. Their mothers find it more difficult to enjoy, knowing as they do that the training has possible motives other than competitions or hunting.

One evening after Eldalótë returns from practice Angaráto gives her a pair of daggers, beautiful but so wickedly sharp that she cannot rejoice in them.

'I do not need more weapons as a gift for remastering one', she tells him.

He buries his face in her hair and she strokes his gently. It is sweaty from his own arms practice.

'Let's take a bath together', she suggests.

In their bed she asks him to hold her close and prove to her that his fingers on her skin are as gentle as ever though they forge and wield weapons now whose bright steel gleams with a lethal purpose.

'The world is shifting, I can feel it, and shall never be what it has been', she says. 'I need to know that you are still here with me, that I can be certain of you if nothing else.'

'Always', Angaráto swears. 'I am always here and yours.'

He touches and holds her just the way she enjoys, familiar and exciting at the same time. He is as gentle and as rough as she likes, and the only hurt here in their bed is pain which is asked for and intertwined with pleasure.

'You have shining eyes, my flower', Angaráto rumbles when they lie cooling down side by side looking at each other. 'I dare not ask whether from tears or better feelings.'

'Not all tears are evil.' She lifts messy strands of hair away from his face; he grasps her wrist and kisses it. 'My tears for you have never been for anything but joy', she tells him.

* * *

'We shall have peace for a while', Eldalótë says to Angaráto, relieved when Fëanáro is exiled from Tirion for breaking the peace of Valinor by drawing a sword on his brother.

'Yet the king, by leaving Tirion with the guilty party, has soured the justice given to my uncle', Angaráto replies with bitterness. She has never heard him speak of his grandfather so harshly.

Whenever he leaves the house, he still carries his shield. The shield is almost the height of her shoulders, taller than Artaresto, and it has sharp edges.


	3. The fire of their hearts

**Chapter length:** ~1,900 words

* * *

**Chapter III / The fire of their hearts**

_[—]their valour and endurance grew with hardship; for they were a mighty people, the elder children undying of Eru Ilúvatar, but new-come from the Blessed Realm, and not yet weary with the weariness of Earth. The fire of their hearts was young, and led by Fingolfin and his sons, and by Finrod and Galadriel, they dared to pass into the bitterest North; and finding no other way they endured at last the terror of the Helcaraxë and the cruel hills of ice._ – The Silmarillion: Of the Flight of the Noldor

In the light of the torches that tinge their world with red after the Trees are dead, Angaráto's warm golden hair is fiery and so is his face. His beloved features are distorted by grief and rage.

Eldalótë thinks she must look as devastated, though she tries to keep herself together for Artaresto's sake. Her son is not yet grown to adulthood, and resembles his gentle-hearted grandfather Arafinwë more than his father. Artaresto's spirit must feel as strangled as by the loss and the Darkness as her own.

They stay together during those dark days, Arafinwë and all his children. Eärwen is in Alqualondë with Anairë. The sisters-in-law had skipped the harvest festival this year. Eldalótë wishes they were here to offer more level-headed views to balance Nolofinwë's heated words.

They send word to them, of course, and Eärwen and Anairë come as soon as they can. But they prove no help but to further the breaking apart of the house of Finwë when the time comes to make decisions.

Eldalótë's own parents decide to leave Aman. Eldalótë is relieved, though not surprised. They have been followers of Nolofinwë for a while now, ever since it became impossible not to take sides. They ride alongside her and Angaráto and his brothers as they leave Tirion, among the last of the departing Noldor.

Eldalótë's parents do not look back as they pass through the great gates and down the stairs and away from the fair city on its green hill. Eldalótë, though, finds herself turning to look as long as the high light of the lamp at the top of Mindon Eldaliéva, Ingwë's tower when he was king in Tirion, can be seen.

After that there is only the red torchlight until the lamps of Alqualondë.

* * *

Angaráto curses himself, and his father and older brother, for arriving at the quays too late to do anything but hurriedly try to help the wounded before fell Fëanáro and his fierce sons tell them to keep moving.

They do, and the injured Falmari don't appear to consider it a loss. There was hate more than gratefulness for Arafinwë and his house in their eyes. Though the children of Arafinwë are half Falmari, and Arafinwë himself has spent half his life with them, they could see nothing but the Noldor in them in that moment.

'I could not blame them', Angaráto confesses to Eldalótë when they journey north. 'I hated even Findekáno in that moment when I realised he had spilled my kinsmen's blood.'

Yet he has already forgiven Findekáno, Eldalótë knows; Fëanáro he will not forgive soon, and neither will she who also had a second home in the palace above the white quays of Alqualondë. Seeing those familiar places, where many times they had sailed out or greeted others coming back to shore, covered in blood and worse broke some new part of her heart.

She thinks that it should feel impossible for her husband to carry on after that, following his father who follows his brother who follows Fëanáro. She doesn't know how she herself does it, or any of them. What keeps alive the fire in their hearts, here in the darkness and the memory of blood?

Yet there it is, even in hers. She rides beside Angaráto, Artaresto either between them or by Findaráto's side.

She wonders about it more after the dark figure on the high rock speaks the grim prophecy that reaches the words of even those at the very back of the marching Noldor like herself.

Those words sound so terrible as to surely be impossible. Yet the sight of that figure up on high and its tone chill her like nothing before, freezing her in place, forcing her to listen though she can barely take it all in.

* * *

'Will you continue on with me?'

Eldalótë looks at Angaráto for a long time: at his familiar beloved face, and his broad, armoured shoulders. All around them the same discussion is being had, spouses with spouses, and parents with children, and sibling with siblings, friends with friends all asking the same question.

Artaresto is with Artanis while Eldalótë and Angaráto talk. Artanis already knows what she will do, and everyone else knows her decision too.

Eldalótë says slowly to her husband, 'My judgement tells me to turn back with your father, and to take Artaresto with me if you let me.' Angaráto's face twists to ugliness from pain.

'My heart', she tells him, 'has been yours since we were children, and I have not the courage to take it in my hands and break it to pieces. I will come with you, my beloved, and so will Artaresto for it is better for him to be with his parents, damned fools though time may tell them to be. I will see this journey to its end, whether it be a new home in a beautiful new realm like you have dreamed, or the grief and torment and death of that prophecy.'

She finds out soon after deciding that her own parents are returning to Valinor with her father-in-law. It turns out that she must break her own heart after all, being unable to both return and go forth.

* * *

The betrayal of Fëanáro and the fate of the ships for which many of Angaráto's kin were murdered kindles a new, bitter fire in the hearts of everyone who is of the house of Arafinwë. Eldalótë cries with rage.

'All that bloodshed of our own kin, and the theft of our mother's people's greatest works, only for it to end like this', says Aikanáro, his face pale under the tall mess of his hair.

Angaráto has his hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword though the one he wants to raise it against is a sea away. Eldalótë knows that if Fëanáro were here, the sword would not be in its sheath.

They keep on marching north, further into the cold and the mist that is worse than mere darkness, impenetrable by lamps and torches and even beloved starlight, and ever threatening to creep into their hearts.

Eldalótë keeps her blades handy for there are more dangers than betrayal here in the cold, unexplored land. She is no warrior, nor explorer either like her Angaráto, but she marches on with the boldest of her people.

Where the solid land wholly ends, Eldalótë looks at the immense, jagged, frigid, lethal expanse of ice, and regrets not asking Angaráto to turn back with his father. There is little chance that he would have, with his heart burning as it does, but she should have begged. She would have followed him anyway if he refused her request; but, she thinks wryly to herself, surprised at finding any humour at a moment like this, she would perhaps have had the pleasure of hindsight at least.

Days, weeks, months, years later, as their people suffer and freeze and die of exposure, starvation and falling into the devouring ice, she thinks with bitterness that she didn't even regret enough.

* * *

On the Grinding Ice, love is Angaráto putting his tireless arms around her and Artaresto when they stumble.

It is him, and sometimes also her and Artaresto by turns, carrying other people's small children when their parents' strength fails after bearing them over many dangerous places.

It is the whole family, the children of Arafinwë and Eldalótë and Artaresto, squeezed tight into one tent to keep warm at night.

Love is her family-in-law, all of them, inspiring enough strength in her that that she never cries anymore, not from rage or from missing her own family. Tears freeze on cheeks here on the Ice, even in eyelashes, and it hurts more than it hurts not to cry. She does her best to make sure that no one else ever cries either.

'I thought that you would have stayed, or turned back', Artanis says to her one night when they are trying to build a safe fire together. 'So many did. My mother, and your parents.'

'I suppose I should be insulted by that.' Eldalótë huddles in tighter within her furs in the vain hope that it will help her hands shake less. 'I shall choose not to be. We all need to be of one mind to survive this.'

Artanis nods. 'True words.' She pauses. 'Rarely is it a joy to find out that one was wrong about people. You hold more steel in your silences than I thought.'

She gives Eldalótë her gloves, warmer than Eldalótë's own. After some moments of not-uncomfortable silence, the fire catches.

Eldalótë breathes in the warmer air, enjoying the feeling of her lungs not hurting for a moment.

* * *

Artaresto grows to adulthood on the Ice, and on his begetting day Eldalótë hates Fëanáro with a new burning passion that chokes her worse than the cold air.

All of Fëanáro's sons had coming-of-age days that were celebrated at Finwë's palace with all the pomp and circumstance and genuine gladness that there was for the king's grandsons, with a great number of guests enjoying the musical performances and the finest food and plentiful drink.

Artaresto gets embraces from his family and a new pair of sealskin gloves but very little besides. He doesn't complain.

That night when they are alone for a rare moment, Eldalótë says to Angaráto, 'I could not forgive Fëanáro for the dark road he led us onto even if he came to me on his knees and begged.'

'This from a woman who has from time to time reminded me that all this darkness began with Morgoth's deeds, not Fëanáro's', Angaráto says with a crooked not-smile.

'I am tired of forgiving', Eldalótë replies. 'This cold has burned it all out of me.'

The next day Elenwë, her friend, is lost in the frigid water amid a creaking of ice that rings in Eldalótë's ears for a long time after.

* * *

As they march into Beleriand, finally on safe ground, a new light rises on the sky and fills the new land before Eldalótë's eyes with silver light and blue shadows. The host of Nolofinwë blow their trumpets, welcoming the light and the continent.

And then they march on to a new land of mist, a cool land but fair. The mist here is less dangerous and choking than that on the Ice, and easily penetrated by the rays of the new Sun that rises as they arrive to what will be Nolofinwë's kingdom. The host of the Noldor blow their horns again at the new light, and unfurl their banners. Angaráto carried his father's personal standard when they left Tirion and carries it still for those of his house that kept on the march. Its colours reflect those on the sky as it flares proudly in the wind, blue and yellow, and pure deep gold rays tipped with fire-red.

Aikanáro and Eldalótë and many others raise their voices in song with the trumpets, greeting the light and the flowers that spring into bloom at their feet as they march. It is a sweet moment of victory: not a victory over the enemy, not yet, but a victory over the Grinding Ice and the death and despair that loomed there but did not bow their spirits.

The world is filled with light again, and the Noldor march on.


	4. The land of pines

**Chapter length:** ~2,200 words

* * *

**Chapter IV / The land of pines**

_From the northern slopes of Dorthonion Angrod and Aegnor, sons of Finarfin, looked out over the fields of Ard-galen, and were the vassals of their brother Finrod, lord of Nargothrond; their people were few, for the land was barren, and the great highlands behind were deemed to be a bulwark that Morgoth would not lightly seek to cross._ – The Silmarillion: Of Beleriand and Its Realms

* * *

The first few years in Beleriand are hard though nothing alike in hardness to the treacherous ice that Eldalótë still walks on many nights, only to rouse within the warm hold of Angaráto's arms. His bare skin against hers is a blessing that quickly grounds her in the moment.

She breathes in the smell of him and lets herself fall to rest again, in search of better dreams.

* * *

There is little need for a gilder in the first, hard years and decades. Eldalótë instead makes use of the spinning and weaving skills that her mother-in-law taught her. It is good to be of use, and like all of her family, she lost long ago any notion of being above hard work because of royal status.

Working at her loom that they purchased from the Sindar for one of the treasures Findaráto brought with him, Eldalótë cannot help thinking of Eärwen weaving white sails for her father's fleet of white ships. For her sake, and for Elenwë's who became as close a friend to her as their husbands are, she stays as far away from Fëanáro's sons as she can. She is glad, though, that Findekáno saved Maitimo from his torment and that the fractured Noldor are working together towards shared goals again. Under the leadership of Nolofinwë, she believes they can prosper in this new land.

But though she is as polite with everyone as she always is, she will not forget the particular part that Fëanáro and his sons played in their coming here. There will always be a shard of the Ice in her heart for them.

* * *

She stays behind when Angaráto goes to the kingdom of Doriath as Findaráto's messenger.

'I assume it is best that you do not flaunt your Noldorin wife in case he would count that against you', she says. 'But do take Artaresto with you. He looks more like you than me, and speaks Valinorean Telerin as well as if it was his only tongue.'

'I am loath to leave you behind when I journey to lands unknown to us', Angaráto replies.

She rummages in her trunk. 'The grey-elves and our own scouts say that the way is safe', she says over her shoulder. 'And I shall not be lonely, or if I shall, Aikanáro shall be equally lonely, the constant companion that he is to you, and he and I can keep each other company.' She finds what she was looking for, a golden ribbon for his golden hair.

Angaráto snorts. 'I will never stop wondering how you did not grow tired of his 'constant companionship' decades and decades ago. I feared it at the beginning of our marriage.'

Eldalótë smiles, and tells him to stay still. 'I could not have married you if I didn't like him too. And –' she ties his hair neatly back so it will stay off his face when he rides '– he is my brother too. For many years now.'

Angaráto turns and kisses her. 'I am glad. When the time comes to decide where we will settle, Aikanáro and I would like to share lordship of a realm.'

'Of course.' She pokes him in the chest. 'But do not kiss me while we talk of him!'

* * *

Angaráto is angrier than she has seen him since the betrayal of Fëanáro when he storms back into their tent from the council of lords, much earlier than she expected to see him.

He paces around the tent, furious, fuming, but silent. Eldalótë asks whether it would make him feel better to shout and he replies bluntly, 'I shall not, or I'll be no better than the thrice-accursed sons of Fëanáro.'

Eldalótë understands. 'Which one was it this time?'

'Carnistir, again.' Angaráto sighs, and sits down next to her. 'He insulted his brother who agreed to me being sent to Elwë as messenger, and me, and my mother all in one short angry rant.' He tells her what exactly was said, and adds, 'It stings my honour and pride that he should insult my parentage so when I and my brothers and sister have fought through all the same hardships as Nolofinwë and his children, and indeed through more than he has!'

Eldalótë shakes her head. 'Maitimo will no doubt rebuke him as always, but how we shall settle these lands and fight our battles together with Carnistir and his brothers who are more like him than Maitimo, I do not know.'

With the help of great distances, it turns out. Maitimo sends Carnistir to settle in the eastern land that lies at the feet of Ered Luin, and Angaráto's land is to be much more westward.

* * *

They ride to their new realm with eager hearts, and a few hundred eager followers of Arafinwë who have chosen to come to the highlands of Dorthonion to live under Angaráto and Aikanáro's rule. Most of them are bold warriors who acquitted themselves well in battle and prefer staying closer to the threat of Morgoth should he send his troops forth in battle again to going further south with Findaráto. A smaller part of them are grey-elves who want to leave the land of Mithrim where they had loss and sorrow.

Eldalótë would have preferred a land more to the south and west, close to the people of Círdan who look favourable upon the kin of Olwë. But Findaráto will keep all that land, for Angaráto and Aikanáro volunteered to take on the watch in the northern highlands.

As they ride there, this time it is Aikanáro who carries their father's banner in honour of Angaráto as the older brother, though they have agreed to be equal lords.

Eldalótë keeps a tight hold on her new horse's bridle. Like their other horses, she was a gift from Maitimo, or Maedhros as he has quickly taken to calling himself. In amends, he gave many of the horses he brought over on the swan-ships to Nolofinwë – Fingolfin, now – and Nolofinwë distributed them among his lords.

Eldalótë's horse is a young mare. She is a little skittish but manageable and shows promise, and Eldalótë certainly wasn't too proud to accept a noble beast of Valinor. It has been wonderful, one of the most wonderful things since their arrival here, to ride out with her husband and son and feel the wind on her face and the power and speed of her horse under her.

It is even better to be riding to their new home. The scouts and grey-elves have told them that the highlands east of Mithrim and south of the green plain of Ard-Galen are rather barren, growing mainly pine, and rainy like Hithlum. It will be home, nonetheless, their first home after a long time of journeying. It will be the realm that Angaráto dreamed of, long ago in a different land, and Aikanáro too.

* * *

Once they are settled in the place of their new home and begun building their citadel, Minas Avras, Eldalótë and Angaráto decide to give each other new names rather than deciding the forms of their names themselves.

They both want to keep their most-used names and only translate them but in the language of the grey-elves, there are alternative word-forms as well as binding sounds in the place where two elements join together to choose from.

'Edhellos', Angaráto whispers against the heated skin of her neck one night, and lowers his head to kiss her breast. 'It flows soft and sweet on my tongue, like you do.'

'Ah.' She arches under his exploring tongue. 'Ang - oh - Angrod.' He pauses his ministrations of her for a moment, and she explains. 'It sounds as much like Angaráto as possible and I want it to, because despite everything that has changed, with me you are as you always were. Strong and sure and oh, oh –' He has continued his way down her body and she can hardly stay still and certainly not speak apart from gasping out his names, old and new.

She tries to tangle her fingers deep in his hair like she loves to do but it is harder to do these days. He cut it short on the Ice and has kept that way ever since. It doesn't even reach his shoulders.

Edhellos misses the abundant golden fall of it, but she understands. The long cold road changed them all, and that is all right. She has hardened too. Besides finding it more difficult to forgive and acceptable not to, she raises her voice more often now and joins in conversations where she may have stayed still and silent before. Angaráto still sometimes speaks for her like he always has, but only when they have spoken of it beforehand in the quiet of their own chambers, in their own private moments that become ever more precious year after year.

She is more protective of what she has now, being aware of all that she can lose.

* * *

Edhellos did not see her husband or other family members fight in the first battle at the Lammoth that took place soon after their arrival in Beleriand. She stayed at the rear of the host at Finrod's request, put by him in charge of the others who weren't fighters of first rank and would only engage in battle if necessary. It turned out to be necessary, and she fought as well as she could; well enough to survive while some in the van who were more valiant at arms perished, including the fearless youngest son of Fingolfin.

Even in Dorthonion Edhellos doesn't become as adept at fighting as her family, though she keeps practising. She can defend herself but not well enough that it would make any sense, still, for her to take part in battles by her husband's side, in the sharp front point of the attack.

She has always prided herself on her common sense. The price of it is accepting things she rather wouldn't, like letting Angrod ride to face possible death so far ahead of her.

She sees her family fight later, from horseback on the side of a battlefield with her bow in hand, on a hill high enough to see everything that happens. It is a revelation. Aegnor, her gentle-hearted brother, roars like a lion and his eyes shine bright with battle-rage. It leaves no doubt in the hearts of the enemy that this is a child of the Light that they abhor; and they quiver before him, and Aegnor with his spirit of wrath cleaves them with his sword that soon no longer shines, dripping with gore.

Angrod and Orodreth fight side by side, father and son working violence together efficiently and mercilessly, their moves as graceful and coordinated as any dance performance and as strong and precise as a smith's strike on the anvil. The golden rays on their shields catch the light of the sun and strike the eyes of the enemy half-blind.

When it is Edhellos' contingent's turn to fire, she with her fellow archers shoots arrow after arrow until their fingers go numb. The enemy falters and fails under the rain of arrows and the swift blows from the long swords of the Noldor.

The singers will call it the Glorious Battle, soon, during more peaceful years when there is plenty of time for songs.

* * *

Dorthonion makes Edhellos happy in peacetime.

The crags and the pines remind her a little of the times when she was young and newly married and Angrod took her along on the long wanderings he and his brothers went on in the summers in the north of Aman, north of Formenos even, where the treelight was weaker and the nature barren at the rocky foothills of the Pelóri.

The wanderings took place in the summer because it was warmer even there then, and they made long treks because it was before any of them had children or any responsibilities that they couldn't abandon for weeks.

In Dorthonion, Edhellos once climbs one of the highest pines on the highest tor that still supports growing trees. It is a clear day.

She looks to the north and sees the dark shape of the great peaks of Thangorodrim that hides the fortress of Angband, ever pouring forth smoke that forms a stain on the wide blue sky.

Between that place of abhoration and Edhellos' land lie the grassy plains of Ard-Galen. The sight of the green land always warms her heart. The grass there grows tall and strong despite the proximity of Morgoth's stronghold, and it feeds the growing horse herds of the Noldor. Fingolfin has sent many young horses to Dorthonion, too, valiant war-steeds descended from the horses brought over from Valinor.

She looks to the south and sees the land that Angrod and Aegnor and she rule: encircled by mountain peaks, craggy and wooded, and dear, with its fair, tall trees and clear lakes that reflect the full beauty of midday and night skies alike. She and Angrod have many times ridden to such a lake and spent a night there, enjoying starlight and each other.

As she looks over it all, breathing in the lovely scent of pine needles, she can understand a little of the desire for conquest and exploration that drove her brothers and sister-in-law. This is her land, and she is its lady.


	5. The long defeat

_**A/N:** A gentle reminder that there's that Major Character Death at the end of this chapter._

* * *

**Chapter V / The long defeat**

_He has dwelt in the West since the days of dawn, and I have dwelt with him years uncounted; [—] and together through ages of the world we have fought the long defeat._  
– The Lord of the Rings, Mirror of Galadriel; said by Galadriel about Celeborn, but Edhellos might have said the same about Angrod

* * *

The first time that Edhellos visits Doriath's king and queen with her husband, she is made to feel fairly welcome despite her being one of the Noldor. Artanis, Galadriel as she now wishes to be called, is glad to see her and at once introduces to Edhellos the man who gave her her beautiful new name. Edhellos is happy that her sister-in-law has finally found a man she deems worth loving. He does appear to be worthy of Galadriel's fierce-wise spirit; if not otherwise, then by his adoration of her.

The second time Edhellos accompanies Angrod and his brothers to Doriath, hidden, bitter truths spill free from her husband's lips after provocation by Thingol, and they receive confirmation from Melian the Maia's lips just how much of the Prophecy of North applies to them too.

The prophecy lies heavy on them, dark and inescapable, as Edhellos with Angrod and Aegnor rides home in silence and in shame that angers them all for it is mostly for the deeds of others. Yet they rebelled too and they must pay the price, whatever it will be.

It takes many peaceful years in the cool sunlight of Dorthonion for some of that weight to fade from their hearts.

* * *

With Thingol's ban on Quenya, Edhellos grieves the loss of her name in her first language. It is the name that her mother gave her, and she always treasured being Eldalótë, flower of Eldar. She only ever hears it from her husband's lips now, whispered or cried out at private moments.

'You have followed me through every danger, my Eldalótë', Angrod says at one of those cherished moments in the quiet and warmth of their bed where they lie side by side. The roaring flames in the fireplace do well at banishing the cold and dampness that plagues Dorthonion for much of the year.

He traces his hand down her side, leaving it to rest on her hip. There is a small scar there from a poisoned orc-spear that tore through her armour. Angrod bears a larger one on the side of his neck. Strangely, after two great battles, the strike that caused that wound was dealt by a small scouting party of orcs with foul weapons, forcing Edhellos to face the possibility of life without him.

But the wound healed, and Angrod is no less fair for the scar, and he is stronger than ever.

Edhellos blinks and returns to this moment. 'I would follow you through more', she murmurs.

'You may have to.' The set of his jaw is serious. Edhellos knows his worry and feels it too: they believe that apart from the high king, the other rulers of Beleriand don't take the threat of Morgoth seriously enough, rejoicing and trusting too much in the time of peace.

'Then I shall.' Edhellos tips her head up to kiss him softly. 'Do not worry at moments like this, my beloved. We can do that in our council room.'

'Mm. I shall follow your wise advice.' Angrod kisses her back, less gentle, and tips her on her back and settles above her. 'And I find I am not yet weary, my faithful wife with soft lips and silken hair.'

Edhellos raises her hand to gently touch that twisting scar on his neck, and then to his short hair that frames his face as a gleaming curtain. 'How fortunate that I am not tired either', she tells him.

Angrod's smile is the sunrise. 'Let us tire each other out, then.'

* * *

Time passes, and things keep changing though the peace lasts. Orodreth marries a lovely Sindarin girl with serious eyes and a silver-bell voice. Soon after their first child is born, Finrod completes his great project in the south and moves there, handing control of his watchtower on Sirion to Orodreth.

Edhellos has not cried since the Ice but she cries when she says farewell to her son and his wife and their child with grey eyes and golden curls, dear and sweet. It is not a dreadful farewell – she intends to visit often, though the ride down from the highlands down to Sirion is arduous – but it tears at her heart like few things could.

Dear Aegnor stays, at least, the last one left of Edhellos and Angrod' family which once felt so large gathered in the high halls of Tirion or the white-sand beaches in the Bay of Eldamar.

* * *

Finrod, the eternal wanderer, discovers the Secondborn whose coming was one of the reasons for Fëanor's rebellion. They do not seem like much of a threat, fleeing the threat and shadow of Morgoth and his followers. Finrod in agreement with Angrod and Aegnor gives one group of Men, faithful to Finrod, a corner of Dorthonion to reside in. Their lord Boromir sends several young, keen ones of his folk to Minas Avras to learn new skills under the tutelage of Angrod, Aegnor and Edhellos' people.

Edhellos gets to know those who stay to serve them. How strange they seem at first with their unfamiliar speech, how fleeting their lives.

Yet how much joy and grief they contain in those short lives – how many births to match the swiftly arriving merciless deaths.

Once Edhellos gets to hold a young baby that is the ninth child of its mother. She marvels at the tiny fingers and toes, as perfect as those of any child of the Eldar, and at the mother, who seems tired but not utterly drained in spirit.

There are none among the Eldar who have fathered or mothered nine or even eight children. Edhellos cannot but regard the Secondborn, and especially their women, with respect. She is glad that her people's skills can help them live longer and healthier lives. How many more dangers there are to them in the world!

* * *

And how dangerous one of the Edain's strong-hearted, wise-hearted women can turn out to be to a man of the Eldar.

One day Aegnor leaves with a few of his men to ride a long patrol around Dorthonion, as he often does. Two weeks later he returns, changed.

Edhellos comes to welcome him home when she is told that he is back. She finds him stabling his horse.

'Welcome back, Aegnor. Is all well in our land?' Aegnor turns to him, and Edhellos blanches. 'What is wrong, brother?' She rushes to his side. 'Have you been hurt?'

'I have been dealt a strike from which I will never recover', he answers.

'Where?' She can see no blood or bandages, no breach in his armour.

'In the eastern highlands, at sunrise.' Aegnor busies himself with his horse's tack and doesn't look her in the eyes. 'And again at night on the shore of Tarn Aeluin.'

He will not speak more until the evening when he and she and Angrod are gathered for dinner in a private room, servants sent away.

Aegnor tells Edhellos and Angrod that he met a mortal woman who at once touched his spirit. A few short days they had spent together before Aegnor continued on his patrol.

'She would have come with me but I told her that I cannot bind her to me. Not at this time of untrue peace which may end my life at any moment, and should it spare me, we would be torn apart by age.' Aegnor stares into his wine. 'Yet I will never be free of her. I touched her hand and she…'

'What did she do?' Edhellos begs. Beside her, Angrod sits frozen.

'Nothing but be beautiful in the light of the sun and the scent of heather, and bright like the stars in the dark of a moonless night. The night, the night I said goodbye there was a star caught in her hair', is all that Aegnor can speak before staring, silent, into the fire for a long time. Eventually he says, 'I have turned away from her and I shall never see her again in life – not by intention, not by chance; that much is given to me to see. But the memory of her –' His bitter-sweet words fade away.

'The memory of her you shall always have', Edhellos says quietly. She embraces Aegnor's still, stiff form and takes Angrod's hand, and they leave Aegnor to his memory and silence.

* * *

Her heart chilled and heavy for Aegnor, that night Edhellos burrows as deep into Angrod's arms as she can before they fall to rest together.

'We were so fortunate, my love', she speaks into his chest. 'We found each other young, and there happened to be no obstacle in our way. Our boring love story, as Maglor and Fingon called it long ago, is the best thing I could imagine happening.'

'I know.' He sighs into her hair. 'Even if Morgoth should break the siege tomorrow and slay us, we have had centuries to love each other. Aegnor didn't get a single moment of love unsullied by heartbreak.'

Edhellos almost cries at that, and Angrod holds her so tight within his arms that it is as clear a demonstration of grief as tears from him would be.

The brightness of Aegnor's eyes is ever dimmed since that day apart from in the heat of battle when it is more fearsome than ever, as if he were avenging the loss of even more than before.

* * *

'We must flee now, my lady, if we ever will! The enemy is drawing near', one of the guards calls to her, coughing from Morgoth's foul smoke that for the first time reaches even their highlands.

Angrod and Aegnor rode to battle earlier, leaving Edhellos to lead the defence of their home in case the enemy overruns Dorthonion. She looks wildly around her, a painful band constricting around her heart at the sight of her beloved home and her brave people.

She is no great fighter but she is a princess of the Noldor and she has forged herself a heart of a warrior over the centuries nonetheless. She can see the tops of distant pines red with fire. There is no safe route to flee to the lands of their allies, and Edhellos will not lead her people to hide in dark caverns and wait to be hounded out of them.

'We will stay and fight to defend our home', she tells what remains here of her people, and her heart rises to a battle-song at the sight of a fierce will rising into their eyes.

They stay to fight a battle that appears hopeless, as is the wont of their people. As she draws her bow at the sight of the enemy approaching, she prays that at least her son and his family will be spared this onslaught of fire and fell creatures, or that he can fight it off. Orodreth was only a child when they fell under the Doom; children should be spared such judgement.

Her prayer will most likely go unanswered, but pray for her child she must even if she can expect little aid from the Valar she turned her back on.

She wonders how Angrod fares in the battle he rode to.

When only hours later Edhellos' armour is pierced by a foul black sword, and all the world is red with fire and pain, she doesn't know if all the pain is hers or if she has been given the strange mercy of drawing her last rasping breath at the same time as her ever-beloved.

* * *

_**A/N: **I want to warmly thank everyone who has followed (or read in one go) this fic about less-known, less popular Silmarillion characters._

_I enjoyed writing Edhellos' story in spite of its sad ending._


End file.
